


GreedIsGreen's Tumblrgasm!

by GreedIsGreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Kissing, Named such because I'm blowing my load(of prompts)!, Sexual Tension, The smutty chapters are marked with an asterisk, Tumblr Prompt, You're welcome ya filthy animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreedIsGreen/pseuds/GreedIsGreen
Summary: Various prompt requests that I've filled during my time on Tumblr. I figured it would be easier on everyone just to make an easy reference post.A little something for everyone.





	1. A Little Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can u write something PetyrxSansaXBaby ?

“I am going to kill everyone who ever lied to me, preaching the joys of parenthood,” said an exhausted Sansa as she slipped back into bed after yet another late night feeding.

Petyr watched her as she nestled back under the covers. It was the third time she’d been up in less than three hours. The purple crescents beneath her eyes giving away her tired state. He reached out, pulling her into his embrace. “It would be easier, if you’d let me feed her, and drop the ridiculous insistence that you have to do it all,” he said, slowly kneading at the stiff muscles along her spine.

She melted into him, as his warm, deft hands released each knot. Her cheek settled against his chest, and the steady thrum of his heart sedated her. “I’m cluster feeding. I can’t just stop. All the experts say breast milk is better for the baby,” Sansa almost yawned.

“All the experts,” Petyr scoffed. “And what do they say about sleep?” At this, a playful smack reverberated against his chest.

“I’m fine, Petyr,” insisted Sansa.

Apparently, a demonstration was needed to show just how not fine she was. Petyr reached around slowly, and gave the gentlest flick to Sansa’s tender nipples.

A tensed squeak ensued, and she slapped his hand away in distaste. “You’re not playing fair.”

“No, I’m not,” he chuckled. “But, sweetling, you’re killing yourself trying to keep this up alone. Let me help. Bottle feeding occasionally is not the end of the world.”

“No.”

Petyr tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Do I at least get to know why you have such objections?”

“I-” Sansa began then pressed her forehead against his chest, deflated.

“Go on,” he urged, tucking a stray copper tendril behind her ear.

“I just want to do this right. With everyone… gone,” she swallowed, “Alayne is the only family I have.” Petyr quirked his brow, looking somewhat affronted. “Other than you, that is,” Sansa quickly interjected. “But that’s different.” She rolled on to her back, head resting lazily against his bicep with an uncertain expression on her face. “I’m not explaining this right.”

Petyr perched on his side to face her, and rested one hand gently against her jaw. Tracing his thumb over her cheekbone, he leaned in and placed a tender kiss to her hairline. “I understand better than you think.”

Sapphire connected to grey-green. “You do?”

Petyr gave her a look of such deep affection. “You’re not the only one in this room that found themselves alone in the world at a young age.”

Sansa’s hands, which had been twisting in the sheet, suddenly stopped, as realization dawned. “Oh god, Petyr, I-” she licked her lips, “It didn’t occur to me that you might feel the same,” she said, her voice tinged with shame. “You never talk about your family.”

“I didn’t know my parents. Can barely recall their faces, if I’m being honest.” He shrugged. “Which is why I would like to help with Alayne. Not just because you need it,” Sansa looked about to protest, but he tapped his finger to her lips, and reiterated, “And, yes, you need it. But because I would like to be an active participant in Alayne’s life. I want to be her father, not a sperm donor.”

A moue of protest formed on her lips, and she pulled herself up to face him. “You are her father,” Sansa said, caressing his chest.

He brought her hand up, placing a soft kiss to the inside of her wrist. “Then, allow me to help care for her.”

Sansa opened her mouth, but her response froze on her tongue as a shrill cry emitted from the baby monitor. Reflexively, she reached for the sheet, but halted as she took in the pleading look on her husband’s face. Placing her hand to his stubbled cheek, she pressed her forehead to his, letting out a resigned sigh. “Why don’t you take her this time?”

In response, Petyr’s parted lips embraced her own in a brief, heated kiss. “Get some sleep, my love,” he imparted, before departing the warm confines of the bed.

Sleep cocooned Sansa before her head hit the pillow. When she awoke, she wasn’t sure if ten minutes passed or an hour. She reached out for Petyr, feeling only the crisp, cool sheets where he wasn’t. She recalled his desire to feed Alayne as her sleep-addled mind cleared, and threw the covers back to check up on them.

Creeping as silently as she could towards their daughter’s room, Sansa eked the door open, and was unable to suppress her grin at the sight that greeted her. Petyr cradled their daughter in his arms, rocking gently back and forth in the chair. On the floor, she could see as the first of the sun’s rays peeked through the window.

She tiptoed in, and the movement finally drew Petyr’s attention to his wife. “Did you hold her all night?” Sansa asked.

Nodding, he replied. “I couldn’t bear to put her down.” Petyr gazed down at the little pink bundle, with her long dark lashes and chubby baby cheeks. “She’s perfect. Just perfect.”

Sansa cuddled into his side, arm draped over his shoulder. Resting her head against his temple, “And she’s ours.”

“Our little family.”


	2. No More Butts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you please write one PetyrXSansa where Petyr is sick and Sansa is worried and has to look after him? Please :)

The click, clack of Sansa’s flats echoed in the private waiting room. Cool, impersonal green adorned the walls along with tasteless art you’d find in any low rent motel. The solitude set her nerves on edge. She’d been waiting over an hour while the doctors assessed Petyr’s condition.

Arms wrapped around herself, teeth worrying at the nail on her thumb as she paced. Stupid, stubborn, infuriating man!

The cough came out of nowhere. One day he was fine, playing with their daughter in the fresh spring grass. Then, he wasn’t.

It’d taken her a week of begging for him to finally agree to see the doctor. And then, only because she’d refused to allow him anywhere near Alayne until they knew what was going on. It was a dirty play on her part, but Petyr had few weaknesses she could use against him. Denying him sex only worked so well. Denying him his daughter, however, was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Initially, the doctor thought it was probably nothing. At least, until Petyr casually mentioned the nasty cigarette habit she’d been begging him to kick for years. She couldn’t forget the way the doctor’s face faltered at the revelation. She knew what he was thinking, because she was thinking it, too.

Cancer.

The flood of tears came, insistently stinging the corners of her eyes. Sansa fought to blink them back as quickly as they formed, but she couldn’t keep a few rogue drops from escaping. Fingertips wiped them away as she searched the room for tissue. A box was located quickly on a far table, and she blew her nose, trying desperately to get herself back to a state of composure. It would be no good for Petyr to see her utterly broken and distraught if the worst came to pass.

The thought occurred, then, as she held her stomach. Alayne wasn’t even two, and Sansa hadn’t even told Petyr the good news. They’d been trying for months, determined to expand their little family, and now… Was she going to be doing it alone? A fresh bout of sobs racked through her and she sank into the nearby chair, head in her hands. She couldn’t lose someone else, she just couldn’t. Not now, just as she finally found some peace.

Trapped within her own morbid thoughts, Sansa didn’t hear the door open, nor the footfalls of the doctor as he came to give her the news. A gentle hand to the shoulder broke her out of the tiny painful corner her mind had painted. A sharp gasp slipped beyond her lips as the doctor revealed Petyr’s condition.

Immediately, upon his departure, Sansa all but ran to Petyr’s assigned room. Lying on his bed, he looked frail, paler than she’d ever seen him. When he noticed her, he gave a wan smile, and held out his arm, beckoning her forward. She hesitated not at all, and was by his side, kissing his cheek, rubbing back the messy curls of his greying hair in seconds.

“You scared me half to death today,” Sansa said smiling down, unwilling to stop touching him, to stop looking at him for even a moment; afraid he’d dissipate before her eyes.

“I’m fine, sweetling.” He gave a kiss to her palm, and placed it against his cheek. “Just a touch of pleurisy. Looks like you’ll finally get your wish.”

“About damn time, too. If you leave me alone with these friggin’ kids, Petyr, I swear…” she said with a teasing, happy grin.

Petyr chuckled before her words registered. His hand came to rest at her waist, his thumb brushing over the flat plane of her abdomen. Catching her eyes, he asked, “Did you say kids? Plural?”

Sansa leaned down, placed her forehead against his, breathing in the sweet air around him, before meeting his lips. The kiss lingered, a gentle caress, not lasting as long as either of them would like, ending swiftly only due to Petyr’s condition.

Her lips brushed his as she confirmed, “Yes.”

His arms crushed her to him. “Oh, my love.”

Her finger traced over his jaw, as she spoke against his chest. “No more cigarettes, Petyr. Promise me.” She took a halting breath. “I can’t take another scare like this.”

Petyr squeezed her tightly to him. “No more cigarettes,” he agreed. “I promise.”


	3. Take Care, You Stubborn Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ur other prompt replies were great, :) Did you think you'd be up for a canon piece with a sick Petyr trying to pretend to Sansa that he's fine? I don't why but I just find the thought of that really cute/funny.

The howling winds at the Gates of the Moon were not as icy slick as those found in the Eyrie, but he felt them in his bones all the same. Each movement as he eased out from betwixt soft linen and fur was punctuated by a burning ache, deep within the tissue. Lord Petyr cursed the old gods and the new, as he forced himself to stand.

He had promised the day before, with seeming aplomb, to spend the day with Sansa after his extended business in Gulltown. An outing that he, unsurprisingly, was most eager to experience. He had no illusions to why Sansa wanted the time alone. Certainly, she sought news of Seven Kingdoms, and he was apt to supply it for her, with some expected persuasion on her part, of course.

The thought of her sweet parted, pink lips as they succumbed to his own, was the only motivation he needed to push through this damned miasma that plagued his weary frame. Dressing for the day was torture, but when he alighted into the hall to break his fast, and saw his darling girl, gently nibbling on a pear tart, he determinedly pushed the welling sickness that reared into the recesses of his mind.

Sansa eyed him peculiarly as he sat to table. His steps, normally a confident swagger, were fraught and plodding. Sweat was beading on his brow as though he’d fought through the training yard, and his skin held an uncommon pallor for his Braavosi heritage. “Father, are you unwell?”

A thin scrap of silk was pat across the damp that collected along his temples, and summarily tucked into his sleeve. He replied to her concern with a reassuring, if strained, grin on his lips. “I’m quite well, merely travel weary. But how fortunate am I to have a daughter so concerned with my health.”

Her dark head bowed down, hiding the sea blue of her eyes. He read this as acceptance, she knew, by the way he redirected his conversation to the Lady Myranda. However, if Lord Petyr wished for his obvious malady to be ignored, it would fall to her to convince him otherwise. The willful man clearly was in wont of his bed, whether he would admit it or not. The tremble of his hand as he sliced through the blood orange on his plate a dead giveaway to his ailment.

As the table was cleared, Sansa looped her arm through Lord Petyr’s, forcing him into a bracing gait towards the hall which led to their apartments.

Lord Petyr’s steps were halting and stiff. “Sweetling, there’s no need for such speed. I’ve promised you the day, and I swear you shall have it. The godswood will not abandon us either, I assure you.”

“If you were paying attention, Father,” she stressed with some annoyance, “you would see that I am not taking you to the godswood.”

As if noticing his surroundings for the first time, Lord Petyr attempted to redirect their party, but failed rather miserably as the aching joint of his shoulder was tugged painfully in the opposite direction.

“What an obstinate daughter you’ve become in my absence. I ought to take you over my knee,” he grumbled, though found himself quite enamored with the idea. Perhaps another time, when circumstances were more favorable.

Sansa glared daggers at him, “You can’t take me over your knee if you’re dead of fever.” Checking the halls about them, she whispered into his ear, “You are burning up, my Lord. Please, return to your bed. Our outing can wait until you have recovered.”

The sincerity of her voice brought Lord Petyr to an abrupt halt. A weakened hand came to rest along the smooth set of her jaw, and she felt as his staggered breath teased across her lips. “Are you so very concerned about me?”

Sansa raised her hand, covering his wrist, her index caressing the skin just beneath the edges of his silk tunic. “You are all that I have. I would see you well.”

There was a worried light to her brilliant eyes, and Lord Petyr could not decipher whether it was driven by the need to ensure the safety of her protector, or by something, perchance, more tender. In either case, he found himself unwilling to deny her, and allowed her to lead him to his chambers.

Once tucked into the sanctuary of his feather bed, Lord Petyr expected the girl to leave him to his convalescence. What he did not expect was for sweet Sansa to take up residence at the side of his bed with a book; her melodic voice reciting poetry, and lulling him into deep slumber.


	4. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you please write a fic where Petyr is in a car crash and Sansa meets him in the hospital?

Sirens blared in the distance as Sansa pulled up to the entrance to the emergency room. The call came only twenty minutes earlier, and even her pregnant belly and the cries of her two year old couldn’t prevent her from speeding to her husband’s side. She parked next to a hydrant, not caring if she was ticketed or towed. The nurse didn’t give her much to go on when she called–only that Petyr was in a multi-car collision.

Hoisting Alayne to her hip, she marched into the madness of a hospital staff running in circles. She tried to wait patiently, but her flagging attempts to retrieve any news of her husband’s whereabouts were ignored until finally she’d had enough.

The doors to the treatment area were a constant spin of staff swiping through, and she sidled up waiting for the perfect moment to slip inside. If Petyr was in there, she’d find him her damn self or make someone tell her what was going on.

At a lull in activity, a blonde orderly passed by leaving the door wide open with his cart as he passed, and Sansa’s hand shot out to catch the door. Straightening her back, she adjusted her hold on her daughter and walked in as though she owned the place, just as Petyr had taught her to do when she was feeling less than confident of her actions.

One of the nurses at their station noticed as she passed, and quickly came around to intercept. “Excuse me.”

Sansa ignored her and kept moving forward.

“Excuse me,” the woman rounded on her, halting her with a hand on her elbow. “You can’t be back here without an escort.”

Sansa looked her up and down. “Well it’s a good thing you’re here, isn’t it.” She yanked her elbow free and walked around the clearly surprised nurse.

It took the woman a moment, to understand her meaning, and she chased after Sansa. Again, she opened her mouth to argue, but was cut off before a word could pass her lips. “Petyr Baelish, where is he?” Sansa asked with all the strength she could muster.

“That depends. Who are you?” she questioned with annoyance.

“I’m his wife, and I’ve been out there for half an hour with no one giving me any answers.” Sansa tried to hide the waver in her voice. She stopped mid stride to plead, allowing a single tear to fall. “Please.”

The tears, the child on her arm, the obviously pregnant belly must have been enough to garner the woman’s sympathy despite Sansa’s curt manner. “Stay here. I’ll find his chart.”

Sansa waited, impatiently, as the woman trotted back to her station. Eying her surroundings, she saw a familiar pair of dress shoes peeking out from behind a curtain at the end of the room, and her feet carried her automatically to their owner.

Petyr was there, lying on the bed, as a doctor placed stitches along a jagged cut to his brow. Dried blood stained the normally pristine white of his dress shirt.

Sansa’s words came out in a rush. “Oh my god, Petyr!”

Before he could sit up, the doctor forced him back. “Stay down. Unless, of course, you want an angry scar,” he joked.

“And ruin this handsome face. I think not,” said Petyr, winking at his overwrought wife.

Sansa came by his side, sitting gently at the edge of the mattress so as not to disturb the doctor’s work. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Everything’s okay. Well, the car, not so much, but I’m not hurt. Save for this,” he said, gesturing to the line of stitches the doctor was finishing up. “There was a fender bender on the highway as some lunatic was trying to swerve through the traffic. A tractor-trailer jackknifed in the road. I pulled into the median to avoid the worst of it, but the fellow behind me had the same idea, and rammed the back corner. I have a bit of whiplash, and caught some glass, but I’m okay.” He squeezed the hand that had worked into his own. “Really.”

Sansa shook her head, and set her chin on top of Alayne’s dark curls. “They didn’t tell me anything on the phone. I didn’t know if you were hurt and in surgery or what.”

The doctor gathered his tools and gave him a few guidelines on how to care for the injury. “I’ll grab the discharge papers now and get you out of here.”

When he walked away, Sansa covered their daughter’s ears, speaking low, “Are… are we safe, Petyr? They haven't…”

He sat up, bringing them both into his arms, and whispered against her neck. “We’re safe. They know nothing. The second I suspect otherwise, I’ll take care of it. You needn’t worry, love.”

Petyr kissed the top of Alayne’s head, giving Sansa his most reassuring expression. She kissed his lips then, and prayed that he was right.


	5. The Air in My Lungs*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> P/S prompt: Petyr takes up running after driving home from his exec job everyday and catching breathtaking views of Sansa mid-run. AU, sweaty smut. Extra points for making it happen in a park/public area. Thanks love!

It had been a more trying day than usual, and Petyr found that even the relaxing drive to his house on the outskirts of town couldn’t calm the tension in his shoulders. It radiated up through his neck; an incessant pounding tearing through his brain, and as he stopped at the light, he gently massaged the points of his temples.

Opening his eyes to the orange glow of the setting sun, he saw her. An auburn haired angel with fire dancing behind her. Her skin was illuminated, glistening with the light smattering of sweat as she cantered across the crosswalk. Petyr swore that time slowed down, as he took in the gentle sway of her hips, the buoyant rise and fall of lush breasts. He continued watching until he saw her no more. The honk of the car behind him jarred him out of his perverse concentration.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going, I’m going,” he waved to the aggravating driver behind him.

The tension, the pounding in his head, he realized, had ceased as he pulled through the light. Though, he found a decidedly more distracting issue bobbed, hard between his legs. He adjusted himself in his seat, applying a gentle hand to help ease the pressure, as he continued the drive home. Idly, he recalled his doctor’s chiding during his last check up. Perhaps a bit of exercise wasn’t the worst idea.

Petyr was never one to attempt something half-cocked(ahem!) as it were. After studying running forums, he invested in the best shoes, best jogging gear; even one of those music contraptions found its way into his hands.

The first day of his sudden new interest had overcast weather. It wasn’t raining (yet) but as he eyed the clouds swelling in the sky, he wondered if maybe today wasn’t the best to begin this new hobby. He was about to crank the ignition, until, like the parting of the sea, she appeared between the trees ahead of him. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun, runner’s shorts riding up her long, long legs with each stride, and her chest shining with the force of her efforts.

As she passed, he found himself reaching for his gym bag, pulling the articles he needed out quickly, crumpling the suit he wore without care as he discarded it against the leather on his back seat. A gust of wind struck him as he exited the vehicle, and he did a quick stretching routine, before heading off in pursuit of the young beauty that caught his attention.

This isn’t bad, he thought as his feet hit the asphalt path in swift succession. The trees were in bloom, there was a sweet scent on the air. The path, itself, circled a man made pond, and the constant breeze made ripples stream across its surface. He was just getting into a good tempo when the sky opened up.

“Shit.”

Grey-green eyes scanned the area, until they landed on a tunnel maybe 200 yards away. He sprinted through the stinging onslaught, diving into the darkened entrance. Hunched over, hands to knees, he inhaled deeply, trying to calm his heart back to a more sedate rhythm. When, he looked back up, he found that he was not alone.

The redhead that started his sudden spur towards the health conscious, was leaning against the wall at the other end, tapping distractedly through her phone. He hadn’t intended to introduce himself just yet, thinking the better route was to get her acquainted to his presence first, gage her response, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Petyr approached her end of the tunnel cautiously, giving her plenty of space as he pretended to study the weather, the torrent as it continued to drench the area around them. When a blistering bolt of lightning lit up the sky, and hail began to crash to the ground, they both jumped back, and away from the tunnels edges.

The woman pulled the buds from her ears, as she stated the obvious. “I guess we aren’t going anywhere for awhile.”

Petyr let the edge of his lips tilt up in what he knew was a boyish grin as he looked her way. “No, I suppose not. It seems I picked the wrong day to take up running.”

“This certainly isn’t a great omen,” she shot back jokingly.

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “Maybe the fates have something else in mind.” He extended his hand. “Petyr.”

The angelic beauty reached forward, but still kept some distance, giving a quick pump. “Sansa.”

Seeing her discomfort at being stuck with an unknown man in a semi-secluded place, Petyr chose humor to set her at ease. “Don’t worry. I don’t bite.” Unless you want me to.

Sansa let out a strained chuckle. “So you just started running today? You kept pace pretty well.”

Curious. Had she been checking him out? As though reading his thoughts, a flush bloomed across her chest, and he’d bet money that if she hadn’t ducked her head, it spread across her cheeks as well.

Refusing to allow this chance to pass him by in awkwardness, “Well, I do a travel quite a bit for my job. I suppose that keeps me on my toes.”

“All that running through airports,” she pointed out.

He lifted his brows, and let an easy smile drift onto his features. “Exactly.”

At that moment, an icy burst of wind travelled the length of the corridor, and Sansa shivered back against the wall, wrapping exposed arms around her torso.

“Here.” Petyr removed his running jacket, and attempted to hand it over.

“Oh no, I can’t,” she tried to shrug him off.

“Please. I insist. You’ll freeze out here before this passes,” he argued.

“Are you sure? I-”

“I’ll be fine.” Though, he admitted to himself, that wind was cutting.

It was a shame, however, that she slunk down to the earth, using the back of the jacket to cover her beautiful legs; weaving her arms into the sleeves, hiding the evidence of her erect nipples from view. He mirrored her position on the opposite wall, resting his elbows against his knees, hands hooked languidly together between them. He ignored the seeping cold, the wet that was slowly spreading into his new running shorts. Who could mind the bitter chill, when there is a fiery temptress only feet away to warm his blood?

“Better?” he asked.

Sansa snuggled deeper into his jacket, and flashed a coy smile, “Yes. Thank you.”

The rain continued it assault, the occasional pelting of hail, drawing their attention to the bleak view.

“So do you run here often?” It was a lame attempt at conversation, but he needed to draw her out.

“Almost every evening. Good stress relief.”

“High stress job?” he inquired.

“You could say that. I’m a congressional intern.”

“Under what office?”

Her nose scrunched up. “I probably shouldn’t say.”

“Fair enough. Dem or Republican?”

A sneer came over her face. “Republican,” she sighed.

“Ouch. My condolences. That can’t be easy with this administration.”

“No, but I can’t complain too much. It’s a Washington Republican, so they’re more moderate than some.”

“Why do I get the feeling the job wasn’t your first choice?”

Tilting her head, “Am I that easy to read?”

“No,” he laughed lightly, “but I have a good sense for these things. Been in D.C. too long. You don’t strike me as politically malevolent.”

Her face lit up with a wide smile, and she chuckled loudly at his assumption. “Politically malevolent. That’s good. I need to remember that.” Her face took back on a somber mien, “But no, it was not my first choice. If you want the honest truth, my dad arranged the position for me. Didn’t want me travelling overseas. Afraid I would fall for some European prince and never come back, I guess.”

“Don’t suppose you’d settle for an Irish immigrant with a knack for lobbying?” He said it lightly, but he wanted to plant a seed.

The way her eyes narrowed on him, and her teeth worried her lip, he thought perhaps she might entertain the idea. “I thought I detected an accent. What part of Ireland are you from?”

“Dublin.” Fingers threaded through his hair. “Just outside, if you want to get technical.”

“And you came to the states to be a lobbyist?” She said with incredulity.

“God, no.” He glanced to the waning rain, wishing it would pick up again. Meeting her azure gaze, “I came over for school. One of my professors discovered I had a talent for persuasion. He introduced me to a friend of his, and well, here I am,” he said with a flourish of his hands.

“And just like that, you’re a lobbyist. Travelling the country, protecting the interest of one corporation or another,” she said deridingly.

“We can’t all be idealists, striving for political purity,” Petyr countered.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to judge,” she sighed. “I think I’m getting too cynical for my age.”

“Cynicism is just another aspect of practicality. Don’t be sorry. I’m not a fan of my business either.”

“Then why do it?”

“Because I’m good at it, and it pays well. In fact, this is my last year. As soon as this job is wrapped up, I’m getting out of politics.”

“And then what will you do?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet. I have a few pokers in the fire. I’m sure something will come my way.”

Sansa fingers twisted out in front of her. “And how does your wife feel about that?”

Petyr barely managed to stop his brow from quirking. “I don’t have a wife.”

Blue eyes raked over him beneath hooded lashes. “Girlfriend?”

“No.” Should he risk it? Fuck it. Risk it. “How about you? Any lucky man in your life?”

“No. Definitely, not.” Petyr did quirk his brow at that. “Don’t look so disbelieving. I seem to be incapable of attracting anything but assholes.”

“Well, then-”

“Not that you’re-” and her mouth slammed shut. Flames crept up her face, as she desperately tried to find a way to cover her blunder. “Look. The ran stopped.” And she bounded to her feet. “If we’re quick maybe we can make it out of here.”

She took off, still wearing his jacket, and he had no choice save give chase. His feet pounded over puddles and mud, following blazing red hair as Sansa ran through the park. Just before they hit the edge of trees lining the parking lot, hail began to pelt their backs.

Sansa shrieked in dismay, pausing near the outcropping. Petyr guided her deeper, “My car,” he pointed out. “Get in.”

They made a mad dash, and jumped inside just as thick wall of water poured down, beating against the roof with a metallic clangor.

“Are you okay?” he asked, using his hands to examine the few red blotches forming at the base of her neck.

Her hand gripped his wrist, pausing his careful examination, and their eyes met. “I’m fine.”

His fingers, that had been resting gently at the top of her shoulder, eased their way to the nape of Sansa’s neck, fitting perfectly within the crook there. They burned against her icy skin, imploring her to accept more. The smart thing would be to leave, even as rivers formed and hail berated the ground. She didn’t leave.

Their breaths formed vapor trails between them in the storm chilled air. Neither of them moved, too afraid to snap the bow string that was pulled taut between them.

“I’m getting your seat wet.” It was the faintest whisper.

“I don’t care,” he rasped.

The cord, that tenuous edge of caution, broke. Petyr’s mouth slashed down over hers, driving out the cold and the damp, replacing it with blazing heat. Before she fully registered what happened, Sansa found herself in his lap, their clothes hastily discarded. His mouth a firm wall of fire as it explored the rosy peaks of her nipples with licks, sucks, and gentle nips. The sensations he elicited coursed wildfire through her veins.

Sansa’s hips ground wantonly against him, and when she heard the crinkle of a wrapper, she did not stop. Did not question the spontaneous choice to share this with him here, in his car, in the middle of a violent storm. How could she, when those hands that caressed her, drew out each nerve ending and set them to sizzle across her skin.

Petyr was not like the boys that had come before him. Where they were tall, he was average. Where they were blonde, he was salt and pepper. Where their eyes had been blue and emerald, his were a deceptive shift between grey and green. He was lean. They were muscled. The list was endless, and Sansa never knew just how much she would enjoy the differences until now. The feeling of his slighter hips as they fit perfectly between her thighs, driving her higher and higher.

She crested the precipice, back arching, as a cry tore from her throat. Petyr swore, as the lightning illuminated the sky beyond her. She looked like a Valkyrie with her flaming red hair, riding into war, and he let her battle cry carrying him to his own release.

His warrior goddess collapsed against him, his arms tight about her. Smoothing over the sweat and water that coated her overwrought skin, he realized the storm had passed. “The rain stopped.”

Sansa looked up, regarding the clouds in the distance. “I should go soon.” Then, rest her head against his chest once more, letting the soothing beat of his heart relax her.

Petyr combed his fingers through moist copper locks. The leather seats of his car were ruined. Even now, where he sat, he could feel the pooling of rainwater and sweat, their combined fluids congealing beneath him. Yet, he couldn’t think of a any time more perfect than that which he’d spent with this beautiful creature.

“I’d like to see you again.”

Sansa tilted her head up, chin resting against his sternum. “Yeah?”

Running his thumb over her cheekbone, “Yeah.” He sealed the arrangement with a kiss that promised everything.


	6. A Perfect Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How about 16? (From a tumblr prompt list: A New Year's kiss)

Dabbing the tip of his cigarette, Petyr watched the wind catch the ash, watched as it broke apart, flitted and swirled until it was indistinguishable from the gently falling snow. The skin of his forearms burned where they touched the balustrade — the stone frosty, the cold seeping through the seams of his elegant tux — but gods he did not want to remove himself. He needed a reprieve from playing the harmless, smiling dilettante to the over-inflated egos of the Lords Declarant — some ancient, useless aristocratic society that gave the inbred blighters an excuse to hoist their noses in the air at men like him. _Especially, at men like him._

He inhaled deeply on his half finished smoke, and heard the door behind him open. _For fucks sake, can’t a man get five minutes away from you people._ He shut his eyes, held the burning grey in his lungs, and feigned ignorance until a familiar melodic voice pulled him back.

“Oh! I didn’t expect you to be out here.”

 _Sansa._ The one perfect point in this boring as fuck New Year’s celebration. He exhaled, the plume of smoke masked by his heated breath in the cold. Abandoning his glass with a gritty clank upon the stone, Petyr turned to face her, lackadaisically perched as he raked over her quickly — a vision in emerald silk and lace. “And where did you expect me to be, daughter?” he asked with a teasing lilt.

Pink filled her cheeks before she had the wherewithal to avert her eyes to the tips of her nude, peek-a-boo heels, where dainty blush painted toes could be seen. “Well… Myranda disappeared from the party.” The statement given as though that alone would explain everything. What in the world had that gossip filled his girl’s head with?

He stubbed the butt of his cigarette out, tossed it in his empty glass as his curiosity won out. “And?”

“And…” Sansa gave a beleaguered sigh along with a few short steps to join him at the edge. “She insinuated that you two might disappear together tonight.” She shrugged, unable to meet his eyes. As if doing so would invite scandal. As if she were afraid of — no, not afraid — as if she _anticipated_ his reaction.

Curiouser and curiouser.

He pressed on, one brow arching dramatically as he cupped her face, forcing her fathomless eyes to meet his. “Why on earth would I do something like that?”

Sansa attempted to retreat from his grasp, but he refused to cede that control to her, holding her chin firmly. Red-faced, she bit the corner of her lip (gods, that was enticing) before explaining, “New year, new beginnings. She seemed to think you might propose.”

“Propose?” He laughed, perhaps a bit too hard, at the absurd suggestion as he allowed his grip to falter and drop. “I do not, nor have I ever, had designs on Miss Royce. Myranda is a beautiful girl, quick witted, but I’d have to be mad to consider it.” He gestured out beyond the gardens, his beringed fingers glinting in the scant moonlight. “I’d never be able to tell her a thing without it getting halfway across the continent by dinner time.”

“Oh.”

She looked chastened, red hair forming a curtain between them, and he could not help but poke at the wound. “Would it have bothered you if it were true?”

Sansa was silent for a long moment as she considered, face that practiced mask of unreadability as her posture straightened once more. “Aunt Lysa’s been dead over a year. You’re still in charge of the Vale despite Yohn’s meddling. It would make sense for you to want to settle down, have some children.” Oh, that wouldn’t do. Not at all.

He stalked closer until the lace of her dress brushed the tops of his polished brogues, trapping her against the freezing stone. She trembled and he observed with rapt fascination as goosebumps raised along her skin. He sometimes forgot that she was of the North. That the cold like that of the Eyrie barely touched her, and toasted himself that this reaction was all for him. His eyes grew dark as his voice softly taunted, “You didn’t answer my question.”

Leaning in, he breathed her in hungrily before gentle lips grazed her ear. “Would it bother you if I married someone else, kissed someone else…?” _Fucked someone else?_ He let the insinuation go unsaid. Let sweet, virginal Sansa’s mind go wild with the imaging.

Her hand found his chest, merely to rest there. “It shouldn’t,” she whispered.

“But does it?” he asked, a roughened edge to his tone.

He heard the wet swipe of her tongue, could see in his mind’s eye with perfect clarity as those red lips glistened, begged to be kissed. “Yes,” she said with a shuddering exhale.

He reared his head to see her face and his body pressed forward until he was certain she felt the heat radiating off him from head to toe. One hand found her waist, the other guided her to look at him. Her eyes were big as saucers when she finally deigned to open them again; great sapphire pools that plead for mercy. Mercy that he — the wicked man that he was — was unwilling to grant. “Say it. Say it out loud.” Fingers knotted tightly in her hair, those radiant auburn curls twisting around him inescapably. “I need to hear you say it,” he purred.

Her delectable mouth hung agape as she took a barely there breath, her hands finding their way up, situating themselves atop his shoulders. “I don’t want you to marry anyone. Kiss anyone.” _Fuck anyone._ He heard it, even if it went unuttered.

He refused to hide the cruel tilt of his mouth, the avaricious way his eyes devoured her as he brutally teased, “Why not, Alayne? Tell me. Is it because you fear you’ll lose your dear father’s affections?”

A tentative hand traveled the column of his spine to nest in curls at his nape. “You aren’t my father,” she said quietly. “And I think we both know you don’t care for me as a father would his daughter.”

A ruckus could be heard in the distance — party horns and shouts, the loud rumblings of a drum. _“10, 9, 8…”_

Petyr ignored it, drinking in every minute expression of the gorgeous creature in his arms; wary, but daring to hope for the first time since his heart was left in mangled pieces by her predecessor. “And how do you care for me, _Sansa_?” That name was a blaspheme, a curse, a prayer rarely said.

A pop, a sizzle in the distance, and Sansa’s soft lips pressed fully against his own while muffled cheers and raucous song broke out inside the ball room. The night sky lit up in a hail of explosions as Petyr found the courage to part her lips, delve in to taste the sharp, sweetness of the champagne on her tongue; relished in her willing surrender as her nails scraped deliciously along his scalp like she couldn’t find the needed leverage, like she couldn’t get enough. As their mouths explored – their hands explored – the fireworks continued in their barrage; crackling, burning hotter than the winter sun, until the virgin snow blinded even in the darkness.

 _New year, new beginnings…_ Sansa’s words echoed. And what a perfect start it was.


	7. Secret Plots, Startled Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 75 for the kiss prompts (A kiss meant to distract the other person from what they were doing)

“Oh my god!” The girl fell to her knees, her voice, her entire posture one of complete apologetic submission. “I am so, so sorry, Mr. Baelish.”

One hallway collision, and the papers he’d graded during his free period were scattered haphazardly down the hall; an array of white rectangles peppering the landscape. He’d be annoyed if it were any one other than the red haired girl planted at his feet, scurrying to gather up all the pages within reach. The image of her there was far too close to some of his darker fantasies for him to be anything but grateful for the distraction. “It’s okay, Sansa,” he soothed, reaching for the errant homework that was outside her range. “Where were you going in such a rush? School’s out, or didn’t you hear the bell?”

The tiniest smile curled her lips. “Sibling duty. Arya is sick today. I got half way home before I remembered I was supposed to get a list of her assignments.”

Petyr had the unfortunate duty to educate the rebellious younger Stark girl in one of his geometry classes. It wouldn’t surprise him if she was purposely ducking class, and he didn’t bother to hide the suspicion in his tone. “Hmm. Your sister’s been sick a lot recently.” 

A knowing look glazed her eyes, and she deftly blinked it away, tucking back a tuft of hair that escaped the ponytail she wore. “It’s that spring flu that’s going around. At least, that’s what Mom thinks.”

Petyr helped her up from where she’d been sprawled, confiscating the stack in her hand. “And what do you think?” he teased.

“I think she’s lucky Mr. Lannister hasn’t expelled her for playing hooky, yet,” she said with a hint of mirth. Sansa’s blue eyes shown beatifically, and he saw as they darted a look past him. 

A clang resounded down the hall, but when he spun to investigate, Sansa — sweet, demure, proper-in-all-things Sansa — gripped the loose tie around his neck to meet him in a hastily pressed kissed. One second passed, two… Petyr stared, shocked into stillness until he witnessed her eyes fall shut, felt a teasing lick at the part of his lips. The freshly gathered pages slid from his hands, the flap of the sheets inaudible beneath the rapid hammer of his heart. She must have heard, however; must have expected him to push her away because she squeaked, whimpered even, when instead he pulled her flush, giving into the dark desire to taste her forbidden fruit. A man can’t rightly avoid such brilliant temptation if it’s offered so willingly. Surely, he cannot be blamed. 

She moaned into his mouth as her hands snaked up through the gathering grey at his temples, and he drank each sound down and fed her his own, relishing in the fact that the tart lemonade she favored during lunch was still lush on her tongue. Unfortunately(or fortunately), the cool metal of the lockers hitting her back roused her from whatever enchantment that had befell them both. She released his kiss with a gasp, and seeing the electric blue of her eyes, Petyr pushed himself bodily away from her, but resisted the urge to pace. He raked his fingers through his make-out tousled hair, trying to calm the rising gorge of his panic. God, that was reckless! What the hell had come over him to give into a school girl’s overtures? Should he apologize? She’s the one who kissed him, right? But he’s an authority figure and old enough to be her father. _Fucking hell._

Sansa, however, quickly straightened her school issue plaid skirt, tucking the edges of her shirt back in, and he couldn’t recall whether he had pulled it out in the heat of the moment or whether it was already like that before the kiss. “I should probably go.”

He ran a hand over his moustache, noticing the red around her lips as he did. I did that. _Fucking fucking fuck._ More casually that he truly felt, he agreed, “Yes. That’s probably for the better.”

Sheepishly, Sansa wandered towards the exit, turning back just as she reached the door. “Sorry, about your papers, Mr. Baelish.” Eyes sparkling as she added with a wry smirk, “Again, that is.”

_The vixen._

He watched unapologetically as that copper hair whisked out the door, then stared at the mess which once again found itself gathered at his feet. At least, he’d had the good sense to clip them together this time. Only one far away escapee, which thankfully sat at the door to his classroom. He flipped it over, and the name jumped out at him.

_Arya Stark_

It even had a “grade” on it. That little shit thought she could pull a fast one with Sansa as her accomplice.

He deposited the papers on his desk as he made his way over to the open windows of his classroom. Outside, he could see said little shit hiding beneath a hood, urging her elder sister to _get into the damn car_.

He watched on as Sansa quickly rounded the vehicle and opened the door, but he caught her eye through the window. She gave him a wink and the cheekiest, most wickedly arousing grin before jumping into the driver's seat. And somehow, he knew that whatever this was, it wasn’t over.


	8. Summer Sessions*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you please write a petyr x sansa teacher smut fic? High school or college doesn't really matter, up to you. Bent over the desk would be preferable. Thank you!
> 
> So this prompt is from way, way back, but! I was able to do it and incorporate four of the kissing prompts.
> 
> 58\. Moving Around While Kissing, Stumbling Over Things, Pushing Each Other Back Against The Wall/Onto The Bed  
> 66\. Staring At The Other’s Lips, Trying Not To Kiss Them, Before Giving In  
> 67\. When One Stops The Kiss To Whisper “I’m Sorry, Are You Sure You-” And They Answer By Kissing Them More  
> 68\. A Hoarse Whisper “Kiss Me”
> 
> This prompt is based on a continuation of prompt 75 that I did a few days ago.

“You didn't fail Arya.”

The familiar voice caused Petyr to falter in his steps, and he snapped the open planner in his hand closed to locate the source. He’d just left his office where he’d been finalizing the lesson plans for the students who would be attending his summer sessions. Arya Stark was not among them — an overachiever she definitely was not. He, however, did not expect to see Sansa Stark in the adjoining classroom. Most certainly not now, when she’d graduated only days previous. She sat on a desk in the uppermost row of his teaching amphitheatre(the perks of an expensive private school) looking exceptionally radiant. Long auburn waves hanging loose and unencumbered; full lips painted in a glossy berry tint. The dour plaid skirt and white button down replaced with a cottony mint sundress adorned with tiny pink flowers, that from what he could see, barely reached mid thigh. If she were a student and he were her teacher, he’d be bound by the rules to see her to the principal’s office. As things were now, however, he could only wonder if she tasted as sweet as he remembered.

He approached the lower platform, resting his planner on the top of the nearest surface. Placing his hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels as he called up to her, “You act surprised, Miss Stark.”

“Well, you did catch our little deception.” Petyr didn’t miss the mischievous, almost proud tilt of her mouth, the way she casually tossed her hair over her shoulder to reveal the delicate curve of her neck. Oh, the marks he wanted to make against that beautiful, pale skin; to see a bloom of purple there and imagine the curious glances she would get, all while hoarding the knowledge that he was the one who put them there. Teeth unconsciously pulled at his lower lip the way he wanted to pull them over her own. _Temptress._

“I did,” he admitted, watching the way her own tongue darted out. Is she having the same thoughts? “But who exactly could I alert without drawing attention to our incident in the hallway? I’m in no hurry to lose my position.” Her face paled.

“Were you worried I would tell?” she said with a concerned frown, and rose to her feet. Petyr noticed as she did, that he was right. The hem of her dress was practically indecent, and he struggled not to let his eyes linger.

He cleared his throat, averting his gaze back to hers. “If you didn’t, Arya most certainly would have.”

Sansa descended towards him one slow step at a time — skirt flouncing provocatively — as she shook her head, the words rushing out with barely muted vehemence, “She doesn’t know.”

The closer Sansa came to him, the faster Petyr’s heart raced; reason screaming at him to retreat. Even if she wasn’t a student now, it would still be frowned upon were any impropriety between them discovered. Hushed gossip would eviscerate the strides he’d made in the school, destroy his reputation. It wouldn’t matter that he’d never had her in a single one of his classes, that he’d only ever interacted with her in the Chess Club after school. In fact, that was probably worse. Yet, Petyr held fast, hands fisted tightly in his pockets until she was eye to eye with him, speaking softly as he dared a glance down to where she bit her lip(that move really would undo him), “Do you expect me to believe that?”

Taking a step closer, Sansa’s gaze bore into him. “It’s the truth.”

A long pregnant pause filled the room; the air stifling as the heat between them grew, as the sweet taste of her coated his tongue and filled his nose. Neither of them moving; both their chests rising shallowly as they each considered the other. The delicate thread of propriety that had followed them as a teacher and his pupil pulled taut, frayed thin until it was sharp enough to cut.

Petyr swallowed down the tension that sat heavy in his chest, determined not break first. She kissed him. She came to him. The dark, twisted part of him wanted her, yes, but he needs whatever happens next to be her decision. He saw those endless blue eyes rake over his lips and up again, and he felt triumph. One well placed push and she would be his. “Why are you here, Sansa? Really?”

He thought he heard a soft mumble of _‘oh fuck it’_ , just before their lips collided, before her arms wound their way around his neck, and he stumbled back against the desk behind him. He fistbumped the air in his head as his lips met her own in a give and take of desire. His tongue coaxing her to open further so he could deepen the kiss, his fingers threading into those auburn curls the way he’d always dreamed.

They fit fucking perfectly together, but their location was too exposed, and he couldn’t get enough leverage. The zipper on his pants pressed painfully into his erection, and Petyr needed more, a better and softer — more pleasurable — nest for it to cozy. Sansa seemed to be of the same mind, breaking away to sigh one heated word into his ear. “Office.”

_Fuck yes._

The answer never passed his lips, however, as they were too occupied nibbling along the narrow expanse of her neck as he guided her backwards. They tripped over each others’ feet, knocked his classroom desk askance with a metallic screech, but Petyr continued on, blindly smiling into Sansa’s tender skin as she giggled with each obstacle they encountered until they were braced against his door. He fumbled for the knob, deftly spinning them both inside, and slamming it behind them. He pinned her against the wall, knocking down the framed certificate naming him Teacher of the Year, and he narrowly held in a laugh at the irony. If they could see me now... But it was Sansa’s sweet kittenish moans that occupied his attention at present. The tacky residue of her lip gloss in his moustache, the little beard on his chin, more enjoyable than reveling in some nameless organization’s misdirected award.

His hands slid down her sides, over that flimsy piece of cotton, until they reached the bottom of that beautious tease of a dress. They lingered there for a time, their kiss slowing to something sensual and slow as they felt each other out. Sansa pulled the tie from around his neck, let it flutter to the floor; his shirt tails soon billowing free, and it was pulled over his head. He shivered as her fingertips circumnavigated his waist, exploring his thin frame until a groan was torn from his throat. She plucked at the belt of his pants, as though she were undecided. How far did she want to take this? How far would she allow him to go? Petyr learned soon enough. Sansa’s fingers fretted with the buckle, pulled it free, and Petyr heard the clang as it hit the floor.

That was invitation enough for him. His palms hoisted one leg around his hips, then the other. Sansa squeaked as he shifted her from the wall, his arms straining as he deposited her top of his desk. His container of pens, his calendar, his box of incoming and outgoing paperwork, all of it crashing to the floor. He couldn’t bring himself to care, leveraging himself to lean over her as he pressed a trail of wet kisses over her chest, his finger hooking beneath the teeny strap of her sundress and gliding it down until one sheer, lace covered breast was free to his gaze. A perfect, blush nipple peeked at him between the swirls, and he brushed a thumb over it, teasing it to a hardened peak before wrapping it between his heated lips with an appreciative groan. Sansa gasped, her back arching as her digits combed through his hair. Her contented sighs urging him on as his tongue flicked, and his hips stuttered between the inviting warmth of her legs.

He couldn’t feel enough of her through the trousers he still wore. They had to go. One quick flip of his fingers, and they were pooled in the floor. He toed of his shoes and kicked the whole kit off to the side, and when he brushed against her again it was like experiencing a little piece of heaven. Sansa had soaked straight through her knickers, and soon enough the front of his own pants were sopping with her. Feeling her silkiness rubbing against his sensitive head, Petyr was filled with a fervent need to be inside her. Today. Now. But just how much did she know about these things? It suddenly occurred to him that she could very well be a virgin. God, he couldn’t imagine this stunning creature beneath him was untouched, but if she was should he stop? Fuck, he didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to risk derailing this goddamn flawless moment. He abandoned her breast to once again feast at her lips, dining on her every delicious sound as he decided his next move.

Sansa’s dress was rucked up about her hips. It was only a small shift to guide his hand from where it had been toying with her breast, to dip beneath the lace that covered her slickened curls; to immediately rub and and rub and rub. Sansa’s entire body went tense, her lips paused beneath his own and her breathing ceased. For a split second, Petyr had a moment of doubt; his fingers propelling to a harsh stop. “I’m sorry. Are you sure y-” The sentence never saw its conclusion as Sansa took one gasping breath before locking her lips with his once again, her legs entwining around his waist, holding him fast to her. His momentary lapse of resolve frittered to nothing in the wake of her surety, his fingers picking up their brutal pace and sending tremor after tremor through the girl in his arms until her voice was harshly singing her ecstasy.

She was so wet. Petyr’s fingers were sticky as they continued their exploration between her folds. His middle circled her warm entrance, playfully dipped in an inch, only to retreat and circle once more as he listened to her breathing calm, felt the pace of her heart steady.

“Mr. Baelish?”

He had to laugh. “Sweetling, I just fucked you to heaven with my fingers. I think you can call me Petyr now.”

Her cheeks reddened in embarrassment. Possibly because of her childish faux pas. Possibly because she just came undone beneath him. Either way, she was positively adorable, and he couldn’t help but soothe her with a disarming kiss. He cupped her face with the hand not dancing lazy circles along her sex. “What did you want to say, my sweet?”

Her nose grazed along his cheek until she pulled back to look him square in the eyes. She whispered, “I want you.”

“Want me how?” He punctuated his growl with a roll of his hips.

“Fuck me.” She declared far too directly for a girl who blushed so damn easily at the slightest naughty tease. He nearly came undone in his pants, but he didn’t need to be told twice. His middle finger plunged into her. She was tight, her plush heat sucking him in, making the tip of his cock throb incessantly, painfully. A mewling inhale was her gift to him, and it was like music.

In, out. In, out. His finger rocked steadily, soon joined by another. He straightened, then, to watch her. Watch as she fucked herself back on his fingers while he discarded the last vestments he wore; socks and boxers heaped with the rest. Her eyes went wide as she took in his size for the first time. Feeling and seeing are two very different experiences, and he saw the question there. How was that supposed to fit?!

His fingers continued to curl inside her, and he allowed her to see the uninhibited lust in his eyes as they narrowed to oberve her. “Do you still want this, Sansa?”

A moue of extreme pleasure passed her lips as he hit just the right spot, and Sansa probably gave herself whiplash with her ecstatic nod. “Yes. _Please, Petyr._ ”

A truly devilish slant crossed his lips as he removed his digits from her sweet cunt, and she protested the move with a frustrated groan until he hooked the skimpy fabric that covered her with his fingers and yanked it down and off. “This, too,” he ordered, indicating to her dress and bra. They were discarded with haste, and Petyr pulled her up to sit flush against the edge of the desk. And he marveled again at how perfectly she fit in his embrace, the pert tips of her breasts pressed against him, growing harder with the tease from the coarse hair there.

Petyr wasn’t going to ask, didn’t want to know, but she was so warm and willing in his arms — so brave. He had to know. If he was going to be her first, he wanted it to be everything she hoped, to keep her coming back for more. He peppered kisses along her jaw, at the sensitive spot behind her ear. “Are you a virgin, Sansa?” He heard her gulp. “It’s okay if you are,” he assured. “I just want to ensure I don’t go to hard on you. I can take more care with you.”

A shuddering inhale, and her arms tightened around him. She breathed into his ear, “I want you to go hard.”

Did he hear her right? He reared his head to look into her eyes for confirmation, and yes, he did. “How do you want me? I’ll do anything you ask.” A dangerous admission.

“I want you to fuck me until I can’t breath through all my screaming.”

Oh, that was the exact _right_ thing to say. Some primeval, animalistic beast within him reared up and growled in his throat. He lifted her from where she sat, her legs falling clumsily to the floor, and he spun her. She was off balance until her hands found the surface of the desk, and he pinned them there with his own. His cock pressing between her cheeks as he rasped into her ear. “Like this, little girl? Is this what you want?”

Sansa shivered, back arched so she could rub shamelessly against his slickened head. “Yes. _Please, Petyr_ ,” she whined.

He guided her down to rest against the solid wood, admiring the fiery halo that fanned out over the top. He wanted to remember this. Every sordid detail.

Petyr smoothed his hand over her spine as his cock sluiced through the silky welcoming furrow. So goddamn wet. It was a marvel. He coated himself, and seeing the pale, perfect globe of her ass, couldn’t resist giving a surreptitious tap. Sansa jumped with a squeal, and he grabbed her hips to hold her in steady, placed a kiss to her back as his cock found her entrance, and thrust home.

_Oh, fuck._

Petyr held his breath. Didn’t dare move. Sansa twitched under his hands. Her legs trembled, barely holding her up, and the tiniest whimper escaped her. Oh, he should feel be bad. Defiling a virgin on his desk — a former student no less — but he could not bring himself to care. It took every ounce of willpower he could muster not to blow his load right then and there. He could feel her every heartbeat pulsing at the tip of his cock. Her soft walls pushing against him, trying to grip him or expel him. He wasn’t sure, but holy hell it felt amazing. A deep inhale to stiffen his resolve, to make this good for her, and he dared to move, his fingers loosening in what he was sure was a painful hold on her. There would be bruises come tomorrow. Ten perfect spots in the shape of his fingertips. His pride swelled, and he picked up his speed infinitesimally.

Something changed in the girl beneath him. Her posture became less stiff the more he moved, and she pushed back against him, a soft moan emitted from her throat.

“That’s it,” he cooed. “That’s it, my girl. Fuck me back. Fuck!” He was losing it. Losing control and fast. It was too good. Too good.

“Harder.” It was said so softly he almost missed it.

“What was that, baby?”

Sansa arched off the desk, met his eyes over her shoulder. “Fuck me harder, Petyr. Fuck me like you hate me.”

He slammed into her. His hips pistoning furiously until he thought his heart would pound out of his chest. “Is this what you want?! Hmm?” He panted, the scene before him going blurry at the edges.

“Yes! Yes! Fuck!” she screamed. She screamed and her hand found the sweet spot between her legs. She was there. She was going to cum all around him, and goddamn if he didn’t want to fill her up.

His cock raked deeper with each violent thrust, the hot, pulsing thrum of her delicious cunt driving him towards his own maddening end. Her walls fluttered, tightened around him, and he watched, fascinated as he disappeared inside her during those final few strokes. The beautiful pink that was stretched taut around his dick; the sound of their skin slapping, obscene and beautiful in his ears. It took all of his reserves to pull out of the vise grip of her climax, to cum along the beautiful globes of her ass. He could barely stand, his legs shaking as he admired the way the creamy white glistened against her skin, the way it dribbled down between her cheeks. He ran his finger through it, followed the path it took between her legs with something like awe on his face.

Sansa tried to lift herself up, but her whole body shook, and though Petyr didn’t have much strength left himself, he snapped out of his post-coital trance. He guided her to stand on weak legs, and wrapped an arm about her waist as she leveraged herself around him. Together they collapsed in his chair, Sansa draped across his knees.

Her hair was sticky with sweat, and he smoothed it away. His voice was soft, reverent. “Are you okay?”

And oh lord help him, she beamed up at him and he felt his chest crack open. “It was perfect, Petyr. Absolutely perfect.”

“I wasn’t too rough, then?” he purred with this satisfaction.

“No. If anything, I think you could have been rougher.” She ran a hand through the tufted hair of his chest. “But there’s always next time.”

“Oh?” And he couldn’t resist a grin of his own at the knowledge this wasn’t just a one time thing, even if they had to be sneaky about it for a time.

“Mmhmm. Now, Mr. Baelish…” Her teasing voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, “Kiss me.”


	9. An Honest Woman*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 26\. A Jealous Kiss
> 
> This felt like a natural prompt for the [Patient, Careful, Mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14428266) AU. This is probably 2-3 years into the future.

Hiding in the shadows, Petyr watched her, his knuckles white with rage. He’d come home earlier than expected, alerted by one the men who guarded the house that Sansa was entertaining a guest without his knowledge. In nothing but a loosely tied dressing gown, Sansa escorted the blonde man out of the house — _his house_ — and they appeared far too damn chummy for his liking. He seethed, puffed hard on the cigar he held and observed as his woman embraced the son of bitch before bidding him farewell.

The door clicked shut, the man’s car disappeared down the road, and Petyr threw his cigar down in a fit of righteous anger. Storming into the house, he barreled up the stairs two at a time, stopping only when he stood in front of her bedroom. The door slammed against the wall at his entrance, but she wasn’t there. His nostrils flared, chest heaved as he surveyed for signs of her.

A soft hum reached his ears, and he stalked further into the house until he found the bathing chamber ajar. He pushed through the threshold and the musical notes of Sansa’s voice filled the room. Her back to the entrance, she hadn’t noticed him enter, and he admired the long column of her neck as she pinned up her thick, auburn tresses. She’d wanted to cut it not so long ago. _Long hair isn’t fashionable_ , she’d argued, but he disabused her of the notion immediately. She was his girl — _his_ — and she could cut her damn hair over his dead body. It became clear that she was preparing to bathe, and the beast within growled its displeasure. Did she really think she could take a secret lover, rinse the taint of him away, without Petyr knowing? Anger blazed white hot, a tempest of fire in his veins as he absorbed the scene.

Leaning over the copper rimmed tub, Sansa checked the heat of the water, ran her fingers lightly over the surface until it rippled. Satisfied, the excess was flung off her fingertips, and she turned on her heel, hands poised to remove her gown, but her eyes widened when she saw Petyr. A virulent snake in her Eden; his gaze burning with contempt. If she was distraught by the intractable waves of fury pouring off him, she faked her calm well. “You’re home early.”

“Surprised, my love?” He rushed forward, giving her no time to flee. Her back found the wall, and his hand found her throat. Grip unrelenting, he crowded her, breathed in deeply at her neck; the scent of citrus and bergamot filling his lungs — _her scent_. It did nothing to temper him. Petyr saw what he saw, and his jealousy is an untamed thing when its wrath is unleashed. “Who _the fuck_ was in my house?”

Carefully, one slender digit at a time, her fingers wrapped around his wrist. The hope was that her touch would gentle his ire as it had so many times before, but those piercing eyes of his only narrowed further. She felt very much like bird caught between a prowling cat’s claws; her heart rate ratcheting up a notch. Swallowing down the worry that threatened, she straightened beneath his glare, nose perched in the air, her voice as sugary smooth as she could make it. “A friend. No one you need to be concerned about.”

“No?” He yanked the ties of her robe with a grunt, tearing them as he revealed the paltry negligee beneath. Sansa inhaled sharply at his assault. She’d experienced his jealousy before, but never like this. The cold brutality of his hands frightening her, exciting her until a sickening ache thrummed low. She should not have been so reckless as to invite Loras to the house, should have gone to his studio instead; but a twisted part of her questioned if maybe this — Petyr’s unguarded, volatile reaction — was what she’d been seeking all along. She bolstered her courage, refusing to shrink under his darkening gaze as his thumb massaged harshly along her trachea. Taking comfort in the fact that even with manic fury alight in his eyes, his desire didn’t ebb. She could feel it; the outline of his cock hard against her hip. If he was aroused, then maybe she could still pull him out of this rage.

His voice was menacing and slow as the words were grated into her ear. “Did you think you could play the slut and I wouldn’t notice?”

“Please,” she whispered, moistened her lips. “It’s not what you think. Let me explain.”

“Not this time,” he growled, and Sansa felt the first true flutterings of fear. His grip tightened, and she arched against him; his thigh simultaneously rubbing at a maddening tempo between her legs. “If you want to be a whore, I’ll treat you like one.” Sansa’s lips parted to protest, but Petyr wasn’t in the mood for her excuses. His mouth descended punishingly as he devoured her helpless moans, forced his tongue between her teeth until the air was stolen from her lungs.

He released her lips with a snarl, eyes raking over the indecent state she was in. Wanton _she-devil_ , driving him insane. Her hands scrabbled for his belt, and he dragged them away, pinned them above her head with one hand as he widened her stance further, shifting her knees apart until he stood firmly rooted at the searing, drenched source of her treachery. One savage thrust between her legs, and Sansa mewled for him.

“What’s wrong, my little whore? Did that blonde fucker not do it for you? Is his dick a limp, little noodle?” Petyr taunted maliciously, smile unkind. “It is, isn’t it? That naughty cunt of yours needs something more, doesn’t it? My nasty girl needs daddy’s cock, doesn’t she?” Sansa nodded, ceding the last vestige of control; wondering if she ever truly had it to begin with. Her admission pleased him. His grip on her wrist, loosened minutely, allowing the blood to flow unrestricted once more. “Then, you shall have it, _but…_ ” he drew out the next three words ominously,”... _not just yet_.”

A string of unintelligible pleas rushed past her lips as he relinquished the hold on her throat to twist in the fabric of her knickers. They cut painfully into the fleshy curve of her hips until the seams ripped and Petyr threw them in the corner; nothing more than expensive rubbish. He cupped her mound roughly, and Sansa was embarrassed at how very wet she was. The lewd _schlick, schlick_ of his fingers between her folds tormented even as the sweet warmth of arousal swelled within her.

There was no fight left in her. She was a broken thing under the cruel manipulation of his fingertips. She begged, _begged_ for him to hurt her more — with his hands, his words. Just so long as the pleasure kept building, so long as he didn’t viciously pull away and leave her as a shambling mess across the floor. 

Fascinated, Petyr watched as she unraveled, relishing the red mark which adorned her neck. It would fade, he knew, but seeing it there amped up his desire to see more marks. Marks that would be hidden to everyone save himself. Claims, declarations, promises of a pain worse that death for any other man who dared touch her. His teeth clamped down over a breast, and Sansa whined, writhed against the sharp pain as he tongued her harshly through the gauzy material. A full minute passed,two, as he bit and nipped and sucked her skin until it bore the rich, rosy hue that he knew would blossom to a deep purple. He removed his torturous mouth, sufficiently pleased as he observed his handiwork. 

A single frustrated tear wend its way down Sansa’s cheek, and Petyr wiped it away with a gentle hand; his ire dampening with his claim. “Hush, hush,” he soothed, beard scratchy as he kissed her temple. “This is _kind_ compared to the sort of punishment you deserve.”

But the fine line between pleasure and pain left Sansa reeling, and she wasn’t sure she could stand a moment more. Her whole body was alight, nerves aflame at every point. Yet, his fingers had stuttered to teasing touch, and she was ready to combust. Her voice wavered as she pled, “Petyr-”

“Uh, uh, uh, sweetling. I know what you’re going to ask for, and no. Daddy’s not done playing with you yet.”

Another shrill cry was ripped from her throat as he tortuously applied the same methods to her other breast. Long, drawn out minutes as excrutiatingly sweet pain lanced through the very tip; as his mouth alternated between abusing the tender flesh and mollifying it with the slick of his tongue. She melted back against the wall when he finally ceased; watched as his hands proudly caressed the sensitive mounds, thumbs tracing over the damp fabric, causing her to twinge as they flicked her tender nipples to hardened peaks. His tone was reverent as he praised, “Perfect.” And his lips blazed the short trail from her chest to her jaw. “You were so good for me, love. You’ll behave from now on, won’t you?”

Though disoriented and needy, Sansa wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but she nodded her head in acknowledgment all the same.

“That’s my girl.” He shrugged out of his coat, kissed her sweetly as he undid his belt. “Now, let me show you the kind of attention my good girl gets.”

And oh, did he show her. Hoisted her legs up around his hips and fucked her against the wall until her voice turned useless and hoarse. The decorations rattled against the walls, and the ornately carved scrollwork dug into her back. There will be bruises there come morning, as well as some in the shape of his hands where he cradled her ass, vise-like. Relentlessly, Petyr pounded into her while she staked her own claims — deep pink furrows raked into his back. It was hedonistic and raw with none of the gentle, smooth calculation that usually accompanied their coupling. Sansa savored it — the pain, the sweat, the blood; this wild, untamed, animalistic man groaning into her neck. It was everything she didn’t know she wanted until it was thrust upon her. She came hard and fast, and Petyr did something he had avoided since their first night together. He came inside her. She felt it; the warmth spreading within her with the last pistoning of his hips.

He collapsed against her, his breath damp on her neck, his cock still twitching inside her as it softened. Their hearts steadied and their high receded. Finally, Petyr looked at her, eyes open and soft for the first time since he set foot in this room, and he eased her to the floor. Her legs shaky and cramped from the lock she held about his waist.

The water was lukewarm now, but Petyr helped her into it and slid in behind her. Wrapping his arms around her middle, he sank back with a groan. However, Sansa couldn’t let things stand unresolved. She relaxed into his hold, chiding him teasingly, “You’re a jealous idiot, you know.”

Petyr barked a laugh. “Do you really want to start this again?”

She read the mirth in his response. It emboldened her to continue. “The blonde you saw leaving was Loras.”

“Loras isn’t a blonde,” Petyr said skeptically.

“Lemon juice,” she stated matter of factly. “He’s been sunbathing with it in his hair since summer started.”

"Why didn't you just say so, then?"

She supposed it was time to give up the ghost. "I commissioned him to draw a portrait of me for your birthday."

Sansa could just see the lewd arch of his brow as he asked, "What kind of portrait?"

Cheekily, she replied, "It's a surprise."

He harrumphed, “No matter. You shouldn’t have men here without my knowledge. People talk.”

“Oh, please. Loras is fruitier than a Christmas cake and you know it.”

“Still,” he shrugged. “I don’t like it.”

The damnedable possessive ass. Sansa hated and loved this side of him in equal measure, but when he tried to keep her secluded all to himself, her hackles raised. Irritated, she spun just enough to face him. “You don’t own me, Petyr. I share your home and your bed because I want to, but I’m not _your wife_. I’m your moll,” she spat before laying back with a huff.

Quietly, Petyr contemplated, his fingertips dancing over her abdomen, circling around her belly button before dipping in, only to repeat the process. “You’re right.” 

“I am?” Sansa responded with surprise. “I mean, yes. Yes, I am.”

He removed himself from the tub, donning his pants one wet leg at a time as he watched her watching him with curiosity.

“I need you to be ready by nine tomorrow.” He buckled his belt, yanked his shirt off the floor and snapped it open so he could slip it on easily. “Wear your best dress. We’re going to the courthouse.”

Sansa sat upright, the water sluicing down her breasts, revealing slowly darkening blooms in the shape of his teeth. “Courthouse?” she said with alarm. “Did you get into some sorta trouble?”

“Of a sort,” he grinned. “I've decided it’s time I make an honest woman outta you.”


	10. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you please write a PetyrXSansa fic where Petyr is mugged pretty badly while on his way home, and Sansa finds him unconscious and bleeding on the road and then takes him to the hospital
> 
> 11\. “I almost lost you” kiss  
> 56\. Caught off guard kiss

The snow fell hard as Sansa made her way through the side streets of King’s Landing, and she tugged her wool peacoat tighter. With how fast it was accumulating, she regretted not calling a cab, but it was only three blocks back to her place from Jeyne’s flat, and at the time she couldn’t rationalize the fare for so short a distance. However, while they resided in a safer area of the city, Sansa kept her mobile screen alert, tucked inside her pocket, thumb readied to dial. In the other, she held the bear spray she picked up the last( _and only_ ) time she got roped into camping. She supposed if it could keep a bear at bay, it would do just fine against a human assailant. 

She’d just turned to take a short cut behind her friendly neighborhood bodega, when she heard it — a metallic clang. Her whole body tensed, and she deftly stepped into the shadow of a nearby dumpster, her fists reasserting their grip on the meager items meant to offer her a modicum of defense. She inhaled sharply, trying to tame the shrill beat in her chest. She should really know better than to travel the secluded alleyways at night, and cursed herself for her stupidity. Again, she heard the tumult, but nothing more — no footsteps, no crunch of snow. She peeked from her hiding place, surveyed the landscape, and that’s when she saw the dapples of blood in the snow. Alert eyes heedlessly followed their trail to a pile of refuse in the distance, where an unconscious man lay face down.

_Oh god!_

Sansa's stomach sank, concern suffocating the last reserves of her caution. With her thumb already poised for action, she dialed emergency services. She hadn't truly processed the full extent of the scene when the dispatcher answered the line.

“Yes, there’s a man the alley behind the bodega at the corner of Silk and Sage. There’s a lot of blood.”

“No, I didn’t see what happened.”

“Is he breathing? I- I haven’t checked.”

“You want me to what? But I don’t know-”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll try. Just- just gimme a minute.”

Body surging with adrenaline, Sansa walked towards the body on shaky legs, cautiously checking her surroundings, phone clutched tightly as she absorbed the scene. She felt exposed now that she'd left her safe little nook, but the lifeline to the dispatcher was open and ready if she needed to use it. A man laid prone amidst the asphalt and rubbish as the snow slowly encased him. If he was breathing, it was shallow, indeed. She crouched down beside his head, smoothed the flakes away from his face to see a rather striking profile. He was cold, and the bottled up dread she'd been suppressing came welling up. Swallowing down the bile that threatened ( _Because oh, god! What if he’s dead?_ ), she reached beneath the collar of his heavy coat, placed her fingers as instructed over where his pulse should be, and collapsed on the ground next to him as relief flooded her entire body. He’s alive — hurt — but alive. Upon closer examination, she saw an ominous gash over his temple, and a small pool of blood beneath his head, but flow had thankfully ceased. She heard a buzzlike sound, and realized the dispatcher was yelling through the open line to gain her attention again. 

“He’s alive,” she breathed. “But the snow is falling fast, and he’s chill to the touch.”

“Yes, yes," she nodded, vigorously trying to clear the snowfall away form his head, somewhat annoyed until she realized the patch over his ears was actually his hair. "I’ll stay with him until the paramedics arrive. Thank you, thank you so much.”

Distractedly, she ran her hand over his hair — satiny smooth against her fingertips — and worried at her bottom lip. "What happened to you?" A pained groan was received in response, and Sansa squeaked in surprise, her phone fumbling out of her grip and lodging in to snow with a crunch. Automatically, she reached for it, but a hand caught her wrist in vise. She froze as she beheld glazed grey-green eyes fluttering open. A wretched sobbing breath caught in his throat. “Cat? Am I dead?”

“No. No, you aren’t dead.” She pried free the hand on her wrist, warming his frozen palm between her own.

Sirens blared in the distance, and she knew help would arrive soon, but he was agitated, distraught as he pushed himself up from the cold asphalt. She need to calm him before he managed to injure himself further. His voice cracked, “I must be. You’re dead, Cat.” He cried into his fist, and Sansa couldn’t bring herself to correct him. Whoever this Cat person was, she was clearly someone he cared for dearly.

Playing along, her voice was coated in tenderness as she soothed, “No, no, look.” She released his hand to cup his face. “Look at me. I’m alive. My hands are warm, can’t you feel them?”

He choked back another pained whimper, resting his cradled head against hers as the tears swam down his cheeks. He shifted closer, his palms cupping the outside of her thighs, flexing and releasing as though he was working out what was real. The heaving sobs receded and an expression akin to relief came over him, awe maybe. “I almost lost you,” he gasped, surging forward to catch her lips without warning. He was delirious and deceptively strong. Arms steely as they bound her to him, her own trapped against his chest. She opened her mouth to form a protest, but he used the opportunity to claim her further; his mouth slanting, his tongue darting in to bait her own. At a loss, Sansa relented. He wasn’t in his right mind, and if a kiss would give him comfort that’s not bad, right? She reached out for him, her tongue toying, lips teasing and soft. He tasted of mint, of salty tears and copper. Despite the melancholic circumstances, it was pleasant. _Too pleasant._ This nameless man kissed her hard and thorough, and her body grew flustered and hot even as her head was screaming how wrong it was.

Finally, his arms relaxed, and reason was restored. They both gasped for air as she placed some distance between them with a firm hand to his chest. Not so far that he would feel the ache of rejection, but enough that there was space to move again, to breathe again.

The ambulance lights flashed behind her lids, and she lifted them to see it skid to a halt at the end of the alley. As the paramedics rushed towards them with a gurney in tow, Sansa willed herself together, gently removing his arms from around her so that she could stand and flag them down. “He’s over here. And he’s conscious now.”

He looked very small from where she stood, and he stared up at her in a daze. Did he realize she wasn’t this Cat for whom he’d mistook her? Compassion wrenching at her heart, she knelt down beside him again, licked his taste off her lips as she tried to explain what was happening, taking his hand again. “You are hurt.” She drew it up to his temple, let him feel the blood with his own fingers, let him see it. Cupping his cheek, she attempted to drill understanding into him, blues eyes going soft as they met only incomprehension. “They’re going to take you to the hospital now, though, okay?”

Clearly disoriented, he nodded like a child, not fully understanding, but not in a place to question. And Sansa watched on helplessly, biting at her nails as they checked his vitals. Satisfied that he wasn't in immediate danger, they prepared him for transport — strapping him to the gurney and covering him with a warm blanket.

So preoccupied with her own tumbling thoughts, Sansa almost missed the question when the EMT asked, “Did you want to ride with him?”

_Yes. No. I don’t know._

“No, I- I shouldn't," she said lamely, shuffling on her feet. "I only found him, and I need to get home and feed my cat.”

The paramedic shrugged and the pair started rolling him away. And the man's expression was distant as he stared back her, his eyes lifeless.

God, this didn't feel right, and she couldn't stop herself from chasing halfway down the alley after them. “Wait! Wait,” she panicked. “What hospital are you taking him to?”

They didn't stop their frenzied gait as one yelled an answer over their shoulder. “King’s Landing General.”

She stood frozen, hugging the wall, until they loaded him up and drove away. She felt like an idiot, worrying after a man she didn’t even know, and kicked the snow at her feet, feeling something jolt loose under her heel. Her investigation turned up a wallet — Italian leather, expensive. Recalling the thick wool of his overcoat, and the soft silk of his shirt under her hands, she knew it was his. Inside, it was stripped bare — credit cards, cash, anything of worth removed — except for his ID.

Fingertips traced of his imaged, absorbing every detail as she memorized his name: Petyr Baelish.

* * *

The next day, Sansa paced in her apartment, tapping his wallet against the palm of her hand as her cat, Sir Percival, bobbed his head, following her movement from his perch on the kitchen table. _What to do, what to do?_ Turn it into the police or drop it off personally at the hospital? She knew, rationally, that the station was the correct route — it was _technically_ evidence. Yet, some treacherous curiosity gnawed at her insides; that hollow expression on his face etched behind her lids.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Pursing her lips, Sansa huffed through her nose in annoyance, hand rearing to strike the wall she shared with her neighbor. The old bat was going to drive her insane one day, and when she snapped no jury would convict her. Letting a silent curse slip past her lips, Sansa fisted her hand at her stomach, yelled through the wall instead, “Oh let up, Mrs. Schmidt! I’m not making any noise! I’m not even wearing shoes, for Christ’s sake!” Not entirely true, but her ornery neighbor would have to come complaining to her door to prove it.

 _Ugh!_ She needed to get out. Maybe a jaunt through the park would help; fresh air to untangle her hopelessly tangled mind. Giving a perfunctory scratch to Percy’s ears, Sansa snatched her jacket and scarf from where they hung and donned them clumsily as she ran down the stairwell, out into the thick drape of winter.

It was only a hop, skip, and a jumped before she stared up at King’s Landing General. She didn't even recall how she got there.

* * *

_Room 414_

Sansa stared at the number; hesitantly, raised her hand to knock only to drop it again, uncertain. His face flashed before her; the crushing desperation on it just before he’d capture her lips; the listlessness of his eyes when the paramedics carted him away. The way he just looked at her — looked through her. Her knuckles rapped.

_Knock, knock, knock_

Through the door, she heard a plaintive, lowly murmured, “Come in.”

Tentatively, she peeked inside to see him reclined in bed, hospital gown slightly askew at his shoulders as he read a book. A set of reading glasses were perched on the tip of his nose, and it struck her that it was an appealing look on him; far handsomer than the faded license picture presented. Unfortunately, he seemed enthralled with the words on the page, and made no move to greet her or even glance up. She cleared her throat with a little cough, and his eyes darted up, spying her in the cracked door over the tops of his frames.

Color tinged her cheeks as their eyes met, and he seemed almost as abashed, quietly snapping the book closed and folding his glasses away. “I’m sorry,” he said as he tried to sit up straighter. “I thought it was just another nurse come to poke at me. Can I help you?”

“Umm... hi," she greeted with a small, nervous smile, tucking away her hair as he slid into the room. Approaching the bed, hands animated, she explained, "I’m, uh, not sure if you remember me. I’m the one who found you last night.”

“Oh!” His eyes widen briefly. “Forgive me,” he muttered apologetically, rubbing a hand over the bandage near his temple. “My head… It’s still a little fuzzy.”

“No, it’s fine. You were pretty out of it, so I wasn't sure…” She trailed off with a sigh, shrugging away the unfinished thought. “Anyway, I found this on the ground after you’d gone.” Edging closer, she extended it out to him. Their fingers grazed, sending a shock straight through her, and she retracted her arm quickly, averting her eyes to the linoleum tiled floor. “I thought you might want it back, even if it was picked clean.”

“Thank you.” Petyr — Mr. Baelish — he turned the wallet over a time or two, as if debating how much of his life had been disrupted before admitting defeat and pulling it wide. His brows twitched upward, and he huffed, “Wow. They even took my coffee rewards card.”

“The monsters.” The glib comment flew out without thinking, and an apology was half formed until she saw him crack a smile, heard a muted chuckle, and coyly met him with one of her own.

His whole face softened, the deep lines around his eyes going slack as he seemed to relax at last. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. I should properly thank the woman who saved my life. What’s your name?” He held out his hand for her, and after a seconds hesitation, she placed her own within it.

The warm contact caused prickle after prickle to raise on her skin, and she prayed the color flooding her cheeks was mild enough to be explained by the coat she still wore. “Sansa — Sansa Stark.”

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Stark. I'm-"

"Petyr Baelish," she finished. Explaining in a rush, "I saw your license."

Mirth played on his lips as he tugged her closer. "Well, it seems you have one up on me, Miss Stark." 

"Sansa. If you keep calling me Miss Stark, I'll just look around the room, confused," she joked lightly.

"Fair enough. But if that's the case, you must call me Petyr." A thumb brushed enticingly over her knuckles, sending a frisson budding low as he raised her hand to his lips, his eyes hooded. “Thank you, Sansa, from the bottom of my heart.” When his lips met her skin, she thought for sure she was going to turn into a puddle on the floor.

She stuttered, heart flying in her chest, “I- Uh- I’m glad I could help.”

A catlike grin lit his features, as his thumb swiped again, rubbing the faint moisture from his lips over her hand before he released it. “Actually, if you have a moment, maybe you could help me with something else?”

Her brows furrowed as she flex her hand, trying to ignore the way it tingled. “I- Maybe?”

Pulling forth the tray table that had been rolled to the side, Petyr lifted the cover off his lunch. “My current harridan of nurse is adamant that I finish this. Yet,” he distastefully eyed the cup of green jello, “that gelatinous goo is on my plate. I don’t suppose you like it? You’d be doing me a great service,” he pled.

Sansa ruffled her hair and laughed. “You want me to eat your Jello? Really?” At his adamant nod, she shrugged, "Okay. I think I can suffer the indignity if it'll help."

“You're an angel!” he exclaimed with exaggerated relish. “Now sit. Tell me about yourself, Sansa.”

* * *

A mild cerebral edema kept Petyr in the hospital far beyond what he would have preferred. He explained it to her as she toyed with the cup of jello in her hand. The condition was not severe enough to warrant surgery, but the doctor insisted he stay for observation until they were certain he was out of danger — one week at a minimum. He hadn’t even been there twenty-four hours, and the stress of being endlessly poked and prodded was already taking its toll. But he enjoyed her company, and would she mind coming again? How can a girl turn down an invitation like that?

So, it became their routine. Sansa swung by daily to visit Petyr, eat his terrible jello, and they would talk — about _everything_. She told him about her job at the coffee shop, the classes she was taking at the local uni, and he in turned would regale her with tales of his own. He worked for the government (some fancy accountant type), and traveled abroad on the regular. It was a bit intimidating at first. He was older, had seen places and met people she only recognized from the telly. The vast differences between them, however, soon dwindled in relevance as their similarities came to fore. They were both orphans; both raised in the foster care system; both somehow survived and _thrived._

Some subjects, however, seemed too delicate to broach. The kiss, Cat, that whole crazy night — they both circled around it. That was until the night before his discharge.

After her shift, Sansa snuck a coffee to him — a mint mocha with an extra dollop of whipped cream — and smiled a secretive little smile as she watched him take an appreciative sip; her giggle coming out involuntarily as she pointed out the ridiculous amount of cream caught up in his moustache. Petyr tried to lick it away, but mostly succeeded in mooshing it beyond the reach of his tongue. 

Grabbing a tissue, Sansa took pity on him, plopping herself at the edge of his bed. "Here," she offered, tilting his face up to dab at that impossible little spot of white, face growing warm only after she'd finished and he'd pulled her hand down into his; her gesture suddenly feeling far too intimate for their short acquaintance. Feeling silly, she tried to remove herself, but he refused to let her go, yanking her back.

There was something alight in his eyes that she couldn't place immediately, then it hit her. Nervous — he wanted to say something and he was nervous, and now she found that she could barely meet his eyes. What if he was about to say goodbye? Go back to the infamous Cat that he never mentions. At indistinct pain welled up in her chest at the thought, and her breaths grew shallower and shallower until he spoke, “Once again, I feel the need to say thank you. I’m not sure I would have survived my stay here without these little kindnesses of yours.”

Shaking her head, she tried to laugh him off. “It's no trouble.”

“So you say, but…” he looked sheepishly towards their entwined hands, “I haven't been entirely honest.” Sansa’s brows pinched, confused. “I need to apologize. I lied. When I first saw you, I acted as though I didn't recognize you, but I did. I remember everything that happened that night.” Her face lit up like a neon sign when she understood his meaning. “I wasn't in my right mind when I came to, but that doesn't excuse my actions.”

“Petyr, it’s okay. You don't have t-”

“I do. I-” He cleared his throat, uncomfortable as he adjusted where he sat. “ I forced myself on you and you've been nothing but kind to me since. Coming to visit everyday, bringing me newspapers and books, sneaking little treats for me past the nurses. I feel as though I've taken advantage. I’m sorry, Sansa. Truly. If there is anything I can do to make it up to you, please just say the word.”

 _Please, kiss me again_. That was the real reason she came here to return his wallet. She tried to delude herself into believing she was being a good Samaritan, but it was only the lie she told herself to make her behavior more palatable; admitting that she wanted him just a bridge too far for her conscience. In her dreams, that kiss replayed over and over in slow motion until she was breathless. _But, of course, she couldn’t say that_. It had been meant for someone else — _for Cat_.

At a loss( _because how on earth had she allowed herself to become this far gone_ ), Sansa racked her brain before smiling lamely, and suggested, “Well… I wouldn't say no to a steak dinner.”

"Is that all?" he asked, granting her a smile that almost made that twisty, achy feeling in her gut(That try as she might, she’s never been able to quite tamp down) worth it. He kissed her hand for the second time in so many days. “I think that can be arranged.”

* * *

Removing her coat, Petyr handed it off to the coat check along with his own, and all those meddlesome nerves that'd been knotting up in Sansa's stomach since they made these plans threatened to choke her. Oh, the restaurant is _posh_ ; actual linen adorned the tables with candlelight, the service staff in black tie dress, everything screaming of romantic rendezvouses. Earlier, she worried if perhaps she'd over done it with the teal raglan dress and black leggings she wore, but she feared now the exact opposite was true. She tugged at the hem that barely reached mid thigh; smoothed the fabric down her middle trying to appear unaffected, and failing. She fretted, teeth tugging at her red tinted lip until she tasted the lipstick, then made a mad dash with her fingertips to wipe off the color that transferred before anyone noticed. Shit, she was nervous, and this wasn't even a _date_.

Petyr’s touch burned at the small of her back, startling her out of the worried glances she was casting over the room. His whisper light, but a touched concerned. “Are you okay?”

Clearly, she wasn’t doing a great job of hiding her apprehension. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. “Just- I feel a little underdressed. When I said steak, I was thinking more along the lines of the nearest Sizzler. This looks… _expensive_.”

“Never you mind,” Petyr assuaged into her ear, guiding her to follow the waitress to their table. “The owner is a friend of mine. Everything will be comped tonight.”

“I guess it pays to have friends in high places,” Sansa quipped as they approached their seats.

His hand slipped further around to squeeze the curve of her waist, and Sansa almost tripped over her feet in surprise. She could hear the smirk in his reply. “That it does.”

* * *

Filet mignon, drizzled with an avocado butter and rosemary sauce. Asparagus wrapped in bacon, cooked to crispy and tender perfection. Roasted cherry tomatoes with whole garlic cloves, bursting with savory flavor. Sansa hadn’t eaten this well since... Well, ever. There may have been one Thanksgiving when she was still just a child, but the memory was tainted; her foster family at the time having been particularly cruel. 

Her companion watched in expectant delight, hands twined together over his own dish, as Sansa brought the first savory morsel to her mouth. A cacophony of flavor exploded on her tongue, eliciting a moan that was practically indecent.

“Does it meet with your approval, then?” he asked with a terribly wicked, teasing grin. 

That smirk really should be illegal for the deplorable things it did to her insides. She clenched her legs together, hoping to abate the fluttering twitch that pulsed low in her hips. With her ankles crossed demurely, she sampled the first taste of the spicy Syrah that he'd ordered with their meal, unsurprised to find it a perfect compliment. “Honestly, I think it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,“ she confessed with a blush on her cheeks.

“I’m glad. I wanted to do something special for you,” he said, cutting into his own meal. “Your presence this last week, it was a comfort. While I can claim many people's acquaintance, there are very few who I could call a friend."

Swallowing her disappointment, she plucked her bread apart. "So, is that what we are — friends?"

"Is that something you'd like?" Petyr commented casually, glancing up from his plate.

She plastered on a watery grin, attempting to hide her chagrin. "Of course, I would."

"I'm happy to hear it," he said quickly, explaining further, "I've missed having people I can rely upon. People, not in my pay that is. Unfortunately, as I've gotten older, it's become rather difficult to connect with my peers. Usually, those around my age are settled down, worrying about how to pay for their kids' education. I don't have that issue. It's freeing, but also quite — for lack of a better word — lonely."

“So you've never married?” she asked, trying to squash the hope rising up in her. 

"No."

"Then, I have to ask. Who is Cat?" The whole room seemed to go quiet, as she met the stormy depths of his eyes. She bit her lips before stating, "You called out for her that night after you'd been mugged." The utensils in this hand clanked as he set them on his plate, and he reached for his glass. “An old heartache. One that’s been slow to mend.” A deep draw of the decadent red wine bobbed down his throat, and he took a steadying breath. “She died almost twenty years ago. Her car skidded off a bridge. Her body was never recovered.”

“I’m so sorry, Petyr.” Her heart hurt for him, and she felt torn in two because she’d been sitting here jealous of a dead woman. _Idiot — callous, thoughtless idiot._ She squeezed his hand atop the table, determined to be the comfort he clearly thought her. “She must have been a very special to you, to still think of her after all this time.”

“She was,” he said soberly, returning her gesture along with a muted smile. “But that was a long time ago, and I’d much rather converse on happier topics, wouldn’t you?”

* * *

By the end of dinner, there was no denying it. Sansa was wildly enamored with Petyr Baelish — wildly enamored and completely, utterly heartbroken. He was the perfect gentleman; charming, funny, and after they’d demolished the first tray of bread she’d realized, devastatingly handsome for a man no less than twenty years her senior. The crooked grins he'd cast her way, the warm rumble of his laugh, the careful way that he'd helped her to and from the restaurant, the way his scent would crowd her — she was positively drunk off him. And he thought of her as a _friend_. Tears of burning frustration stung behind her eyes. _What sort of stupid girl falls for a man who’s still in love with a dead woman?_

The car hummed to a stop in front of her building, and Petyr’s hand found hers in the dark. “Is everything okay, Sansa? You’ve been very quiet the last hour.”

Sansa’s heart twisted as she took in the concern on his face, and her exquisite meal sat like a heavy immovable rock in her gut. “I’m fine.” She shrugged, casting him a pale shadow of a smile. “I probably shouldn't have eaten so many lemoncakes. I'm just sleepy is all.”

“It was a particularly rich meal. I’m glad you shared it with me. I can’t recall the last time I had such enjoyable company," he agreed, tone raspy and warm. He pursed his lips, leaned into her intently, and that dastardly, sinful hope convinced her to close her eyes... "I thought perhaps-” But Sansa cut off whatever he was about to suggest, realizing far too late that he wasn't making a move to kiss her at all. His lips were parted but immobile beneath her own, and by the time she pulled the brakes on this runaway train, she absolutely wanted to curl up and _die_. The face of complete shock stared down at her like a barrel of a gun, and his lips were stained red.

_Oh, god._

“I’m sorry,” she squeaked. “I- I-” She licked her lips, her hand scrambling for the door’s handle. She had to get out of the car before she really did die of acute embarrassment. The cool grip found its way into her palm. Jackpot. “Um, thanks for dinner.” She bolted. Through the door, into the building, up the stairwell; pulling off her modest ballet flats after the first flight because they kept slipping and she couldn’t hide in her apartment fast enough.

_Idiot, idiot, idiot. Who does that?!_ Just up and kisses someone who was only trying to be _kind!_

The keys to her studio unit jangled uncontrollably as her hand shook; her blood pumping at light speed from such a _heinous_ error in judgment, and she didn’t take a true, full breath until the door was slammed hard behind her. Not even a full minute passed before the little fury dictator was demanding her attention. 

_Mrrrew, mrrrew_

“Oh, Percy, at least you still love me,” she said forlornly, picking up the grey tabby from where he weaved through her legs. Kissing him on the head, “Even if it’s only because I feed you.” She placed him on the counter as she opened a bag of treats.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

"You have got to be kidding me!" Sansa whipped out of her kitchen and yanked open her door, fully prepared to tell Mrs. Schimdt just where to shove her wall banging broom, only to stop dead in her tracks. Petyr stood just outside her door, his hand poised to knock. Her stomach did a one eighty flip into a triple axle and whatever the fuck other fancy spinning, sproinging Olympic moves one could think of as he stepped closer. Words froze in her throat, which was just fine, as he didn't seem interested in talking. He reached out for her — arms snaking around her waist, into her hair — and his mouth took hers in a deeply, sensual kiss. The slow, careful movement of his lips and tongue pulling the sweetest sounds from her throat. This kiss wasn't as good their first. It was _better_. Because this kiss, this kiss was meant for her and her alone. She melted into him, meeting him stroke for delicious stroke, reveling in the same piquant flavor that she’d come to crave.

Petyr growled, painstakingly pulling his mouth away. “Now, if you’ll let me finish what I wanted to say before,” he purred against her lips. “I’d like it very much if we could continue to see each other.”

“Okay,” she sighed happily, nails rasping along his nape. “But only if you keep kissing me like that.”

“I don't think,” he said, peck, peck, pecking down her jaw, “that will be a problem.” A sweltering kiss to her lips, and he loosened his grip attempting to exit gracefully. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Sansa wasn't having it. She wrapped her arms around him tighter. Her voice dripping pure sugar, “You don’t want to stay awhile?” Oh, she really shouldn’t sound that desperate, but Petyr didn’t seem to mind.

The deep rumble of his chest warmed her through, as he replied with amusement tilting his lips, “We have an audience.”

“Hmm?” Sansa opened her eyes ( _When had she shut them? Who knows, who cares! Elation coursing through her veins because he kissed her! He wanted her! She was in his arms!_ ), and craned her head around to see old Mrs. Schmidt standing in her house robe, cigarette hanging out of one side of her mouth and curlers in her hair.

Petyr tilted her to face him once more, kissed her lips with a grin. “Tomorrow.” He slithered out of her arms and veritably skipped down the stairs, and Sansa could not wipe the smile off her face if her life depended on it. It took all her effect not to make a complete ass out of herself by twirling into her apartment.

“Well, honey,” Mrs. Schmidt said in her smoke soaked voice, “If you two don't work out, you can send him my way.”

In your dreams you old crone! 

Sansa glided into her apartment, singing out sweetly behind her, “Goodnight, Mrs. Schmidt.”


End file.
